Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Green Egg Grills Forsale

My hairdresser has

That's right: the salon I usually go to the "relatively canchera but neighborhood-have facebook and invited me to the" follow. " Recently I noticed that some places have facebook. I begin to suspect that the social networks is a very foolish ... Not even the CIA serves something.

Green Egg Grills Forsale

My hairdresser has

That's right: the salon I usually go to the "relatively canchera but neighborhood-have facebook and invited me to the" follow. " Recently I noticed that some places have facebook. I begin to suspect that the social networks is a very foolish ... Not even the CIA serves something.

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EAP


If I had the opportunity to travel back to the inert.
I would do to claim to Edgar Allan Poe and his mind.
reclaim for my fears and tastes of female deaths that have touched my bedroom door to make love.
would claim for the remains and the dreams in which pale women with little sharp daggers, I take heart.
I do for my perspective and my madness. For to write, under the shade of a leafy tree and not under arms of death.
would claim the existence of Ligeia and that damn crow ... especially the sickly raven.




Illustration by: Abigail Larson.

Buy Sound Blaster Mb License

EAP


If I had the opportunity to travel back to the inert.
I would do to claim to Edgar Allan Poe and his mind.
reclaim for my fears and tastes of female deaths that have touched my bedroom door to make love.
would claim for the remains and the dreams in which pale women with little sharp daggers, I take heart.
I do for my perspective and my madness. For to write, under the shade of a leafy tree and not under arms of death.
would claim the existence of Ligeia and that damn crow ... especially the sickly raven.




Illustration by: Abigail Larson.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Can You Put Tile Over Textured

" What is written "by Stephen King


The following is an excerpt from the book 'On Writing' (On Writing) by Stephen King. An autobiography, which in turn contains a writing guide, published in 2000. I read this text a few months ago and to consider it quite right about what is actually writing. Enjoy.

WRITE WHAT
Telepathy of course. On second thought, has its charms: the people have spent years debating whether there is, there are characters such as JB Rhine have been puzzled to create a valid verification procedure to isolate you, and it has always been perfectly at sight, like Poe's purloined letter. All the arts depend upon telepathy to a greater or lesser extent, but I think that literature offers the purest distillation. You may be biased in their favor, but never mind: let's stay with the script, since it's what we have to think and talk.
My name is Stephen King, and write the first draft of the manuscript on my desk (which is placed where the roof down) a morning of snow in December 1997. I have several things in mind. Some are concerns (poor eyesight, have not started Christmas shopping, my wife has left home with a virus), others, however, are welcome (our youngest son has made a surprise visit from college, and a Wallflowers concert I went to play with them Brand New Cadillac of the Clash), but now takes precedence paperwork. I'm somewhere else, in a basement with bright and clear images. It has taken me many years construírmelo. Master a great perspective. I know that does not fit much with it being a basement, which is strange and contradictory, but I worked well. Another built his perch in a tree, or on the roof of the World Trade Center, or the rim of the Grand Canyon. There, each with their own preferences.
The publication of this book is scheduled for late summer or early fall of 2000. Confirmed the data, you, reader, you'll be certain chronological distance from me ... but it is very likely that you're on your own lookout, where you receive telepathic messages. It is not necessary, eh? Books are more portable magic exists. I usually listen to one in the car (always full version because the readings of texts shortcuts seem the height), and usually never leave without a book. You never know when apetecerá have a safety valve: LF queues at toll booths, the departure lounges of airports, laundromats on rainy afternoons, or worst of all: the doctor's office when it is delayed and you have to wait half an hour to torture you a sensitive part of your body. In and sometimes I find indispensable books. If I have to spend some time in purgatory before I send up or down, I anticipate that as long as I will not complain library. (Surely if there is will be full of Danielle Steel novels and cookbooks, ja ja, is for you, Steve.)
mean, I read whenever I can, but I have a place favorite reading, and sure you do too: a place with good light and good atmosphere. Mine is the blue chair in my study. You may prefer the couch, the rocking chair in the kitchen or the bed, reading in bed can be paradise, provided they are well lit page and not prone to throwing the coffee or cognac in the sheets.
Suppose, therefore, you are on your favorite reception venue, as I do on my transmission. Our mental communication exercise will be done in time, as well as in the distance, but hey, nothing happens: if we can still read Dickens, Shakespeare and (with the mediation of some notes) Herodotus, the distance between 1997 and 2000 does not seem insurmountable. Ready? go ahead with telepathy. You've probably noticed that I have nothing on the sleeves, and not move their lips. It is very likely that you either.
Look at this table covered with a red cloth. Above is a cage the size of a fishbowl. Contains a white rabbit with pink nose and eye rims the same color. The rabbit has a piece of carrot on the front paws and chews with relish. Drawn on the back takes eight legibly in blue ink.
Are we seeing the same thing? To be certain of all we should get together and compare our notes, but I think so. Of course it is inevitable that there are some variations: some receivers will see a maroon cloth, and more alive. (The recipient will see ash gray color blind.) Some see the decorations on edge of the fabric. Decorative souls have added a little lace, and are free to do so. My tablecloth is yours.
Following the same principle, the issue of cage leaves much room for individual interpretation. To begin with, has been described by a "comparison inaccurate", which will become operational only if we see the world and measure things with similar criteria. When making comparisons imprecise is easy to fall into disrepair, but the alternative is twee attention to detail that takes all the fun to writing. What would he have said? What "is a cage over a meter deep, two feet in width and fourteen inches high "? More than prose would be an instruction manual. The paragraph also specifies the material of the cage. Wire "? Steel Bar "? "Crystal? Does it matter? We all understand that the cage is an object that allows you to view its contents. Otherwise we are indifferent. In fact, the most interesting thing is not even the rabbits eating carrots, but the number back. There is a six, a four, or a nineteen point five. It's an eight. Is the focal point, and we will see them. I have not said or what you've asked me. I have not opened my mouth, nor you yours. Not even agree on the year, let alone in the room. And yet we're together. Very close.
have touched our minds.
I have sent you a table with a red cloth, a cage, a council and a number eight in blue ink. You have received everything, and first of eight blue. We starred in an act of telepathy. Telepathy really, eh? Without chorraditas mystical. I will not give up on the above, but continue to be fore like to make a point: not that I do the ready, is there anything to expose.
The act of writing can be addressed nervousness, excitement, hope and even desperation (when you sense that you can not write everything in your head and heart). It can face the blank page, clenching his fists and closed eyes, wanting to deliver blows and put names and surnames, or because you want to marry a girl, or want to change the world. Everything is permissible while not taken lightly. I repeat: do not approach the blank page lightly.
do not ask you do it with reverence, not critically. Nor do I mean you have to be politically correct or parked ect humor (hopefully you!). It is no popularity contest, nor the moral Olympics, nor is any church, but damn, this is writing, no washing the car or put mascara. If you are able to take it seriously, we'll talk. If you can not or do not want to close the book and dedicate yourself to something else.
A car wash, for example.

Can You Put Tile Over Textured

" What is written "by Stephen King


The following is an excerpt from the book 'On Writing' (On Writing) by Stephen King. An autobiography, which in turn contains a writing guide, published in 2000. I read this text a few months ago and to consider it quite right about what is actually writing. Enjoy.

WRITE WHAT
Telepathy of course. On second thought, has its charms: the people have spent years debating whether there is, there are characters such as JB Rhine have been puzzled to create a valid verification procedure to isolate you, and it has always been perfectly at sight, like Poe's purloined letter. All the arts depend upon telepathy to a greater or lesser extent, but I think that literature offers the purest distillation. You may be biased in their favor, but never mind: let's stay with the script, since it's what we have to think and talk.
My name is Stephen King, and write the first draft of the manuscript on my desk (which is placed where the roof down) a morning of snow in December 1997. I have several things in mind. Some are concerns (poor eyesight, have not started Christmas shopping, my wife has left home with a virus), others, however, are welcome (our youngest son has made a surprise visit from college, and a Wallflowers concert I went to play with them Brand New Cadillac of the Clash), but now takes precedence paperwork. I'm somewhere else, in a basement with bright and clear images. It has taken me many years construírmelo. Master a great perspective. I know that does not fit much with it being a basement, which is strange and contradictory, but I worked well. Another built his perch in a tree, or on the roof of the World Trade Center, or the rim of the Grand Canyon. There, each with their own preferences.
The publication of this book is scheduled for late summer or early fall of 2000. Confirmed the data, you, reader, you'll be certain chronological distance from me ... but it is very likely that you're on your own lookout, where you receive telepathic messages. It is not necessary, eh? Books are more portable magic exists. I usually listen to one in the car (always full version because the readings of texts shortcuts seem the height), and usually never leave without a book. You never know when apetecerá have a safety valve: LF queues at toll booths, the departure lounges of airports, laundromats on rainy afternoons, or worst of all: the doctor's office when it is delayed and you have to wait half an hour to torture you a sensitive part of your body. In and sometimes I find indispensable books. If I have to spend some time in purgatory before I send up or down, I anticipate that as long as I will not complain library. (Surely if there is will be full of Danielle Steel novels and cookbooks, ja ja, is for you, Steve.)
mean, I read whenever I can, but I have a place favorite reading, and sure you do too: a place with good light and good atmosphere. Mine is the blue chair in my study. You may prefer the couch, the rocking chair in the kitchen or the bed, reading in bed can be paradise, provided they are well lit page and not prone to throwing the coffee or cognac in the sheets.
Suppose, therefore, you are on your favorite reception venue, as I do on my transmission. Our mental communication exercise will be done in time, as well as in the distance, but hey, nothing happens: if we can still read Dickens, Shakespeare and (with the mediation of some notes) Herodotus, the distance between 1997 and 2000 does not seem insurmountable. Ready? go ahead with telepathy. You've probably noticed that I have nothing on the sleeves, and not move their lips. It is very likely that you either.
Look at this table covered with a red cloth. Above is a cage the size of a fishbowl. Contains a white rabbit with pink nose and eye rims the same color. The rabbit has a piece of carrot on the front paws and chews with relish. Drawn on the back takes eight legibly in blue ink.
Are we seeing the same thing? To be certain of all we should get together and compare our notes, but I think so. Of course it is inevitable that there are some variations: some receivers will see a maroon cloth, and more alive. (The recipient will see ash gray color blind.) Some see the decorations on edge of the fabric. Decorative souls have added a little lace, and are free to do so. My tablecloth is yours.
Following the same principle, the issue of cage leaves much room for individual interpretation. To begin with, has been described by a "comparison inaccurate", which will become operational only if we see the world and measure things with similar criteria. When making comparisons imprecise is easy to fall into disrepair, but the alternative is twee attention to detail that takes all the fun to writing. What would he have said? What "is a cage over a meter deep, two feet in width and fourteen inches high "? More than prose would be an instruction manual. The paragraph also specifies the material of the cage. Wire "? Steel Bar "? "Crystal? Does it matter? We all understand that the cage is an object that allows you to view its contents. Otherwise we are indifferent. In fact, the most interesting thing is not even the rabbits eating carrots, but the number back. There is a six, a four, or a nineteen point five. It's an eight. Is the focal point, and we will see them. I have not said or what you've asked me. I have not opened my mouth, nor you yours. Not even agree on the year, let alone in the room. And yet we're together. Very close.
have touched our minds.
I have sent you a table with a red cloth, a cage, a council and a number eight in blue ink. You have received everything, and first of eight blue. We starred in an act of telepathy. Telepathy really, eh? Without chorraditas mystical. I will not give up on the above, but continue to be fore like to make a point: not that I do the ready, is there anything to expose.
The act of writing can be addressed nervousness, excitement, hope and even desperation (when you sense that you can not write everything in your head and heart). It can face the blank page, clenching his fists and closed eyes, wanting to deliver blows and put names and surnames, or because you want to marry a girl, or want to change the world. Everything is permissible while not taken lightly. I repeat: do not approach the blank page lightly.
do not ask you do it with reverence, not critically. Nor do I mean you have to be politically correct or parked ect humor (hopefully you!). It is no popularity contest, nor the moral Olympics, nor is any church, but damn, this is writing, no washing the car or put mascara. If you are able to take it seriously, we'll talk. If you can not or do not want to close the book and dedicate yourself to something else.
A car wash, for example.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Pilot In Canada Salary

" Little Red Riding Hood Red "by Charles Perrault


Talking about Little Red Riding Hood, her red hood and her clear innocence and lack of sight, is to make children's literature, remembering childhood or perhaps consider in your children. Popularly so, but not many know the origin of this story.

Little Red Riding Hood was first written by Charles Perrault, in 1697, more that history does not belong. It was a popular story that went from mouth to mouth. Parrault is responsible for collecting for written transmission. Later would be written by the Brothers Grimm, they made this a story something more innocent, that version would give him worldwide popularity and even today is the most read. Then for 1800 Ludwig Tieck wrote "Life and Death of the Little Red Riding Hood, a tragedy," where would annex new details, such as the woodsman who rescues Red Riding Hood and Grandma. The difference the popular fairy tale and the story of Charles Parrault is that the history of this - for the time - more than a cruel story like a legend. In fact these stories now for children as Little Red Riding Hood or Cinderella (also written by Perrault and later by the brothers Grimm), are considered the first possible tales of terror.

However, no matter how cruel it was the story of Parrault, it omitted some details of the popular buzz more terrifying as the fox invited the girl to eat the flesh and drinking the blood of freshly dismembered his grandmother. On the contrary the intention of Parraut with this story was to leave a moral lesson on girls that relate to strangers.

Without further ado, Parrault Red Riding Hood, enjoy:


Red Riding Hood There once was a girl in a village, the most beautiful was ever seen, his mother was mad with her and her grandmother still more. This good woman had to make a Little Red Riding Hood and I sat while everyone called her Little Red Riding Hood.

One day her mother, having cooked some cakes, said:
- Go see how your grandmother, for I hear she has been sick Take her a cake and this little pot of butter.

Red Riding Hood set out immediately to see his grandmother who lived in another village. Passing through a forest, he met the wolf, who longed to eat, but dared not because some woodcutters working nearby. He asked where I was going. The poor girl did not know it was dangerous to stop and talk to a wolf, he said,
- I will see my grandmother and carry her a cake and a pot of butter mother sends.
- Do you live far away? - Said the Wolf.
- Oh, yeah! - Red Riding Hood said - beyond the mill you see yonder, in the first house in the village.
- Well - said Wolf - I'll go and see her I'll go this way and go you that, and we'll see who gets there first.

The wolf ran full speed down the road that was shorter and the girl went the longest way, amusing take nuts, running after butterflies, and gathering bouquets of little flowers. Wolf was not long in coming to grandma's house, hit, knock, knock.
- Who is it?
- Your grandchild, Little Red Riding Hood - Wolf said, disguising his voice - has brought you a cake and a pot of butter mother sends.

The poor grandmother, who was in bed because she was However, he shouted:
- Throw the latch and the latch will go.

The Wolf pulled the bobbin, and the door opened. It fell upon the good woman and ate her in a heartbeat, he had more than three days without eating. Then shut the door and went to sleep in the bed of his grandmother, who waited for Little Red Riding Hood, a while after, he hit the door: tap, tap.
- Who is it?
Red Riding Hood, hearing the voice of the wolf, was at first afraid, but believing her grandmother had a cold, answered:
- Your grandchild, Little Red Riding Hood, I bring a cake and a pot of butter mother sends you.

Wolf shouted the voice softening a bit:
- Pull the latch and the latch will go.

Red Riding Hood pulled the bobbin and the door opened. Seeing her go, Wolf said, while hiding in the bed under the blanket:
- Put the cake and the little pot of butter upon the stool, and come lie with me. Little Red Riding Hood

undresses and climbs into bed and was very amazed to see how her grandmother looked in her nightgown. She said
- Grandma what big hands you have!
- better to hug you, my child.
- Grandma what big legs you have!
- is to run better, my child.
- Grandmother What big ears you have!
- the better to hear, my dear.
- Grandmother What big eyes you have!
- It is better to see my daughter.
- Grandma what big teeth you have!
- better to eat you!
Saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood and ate.

- End -

Moral: Here we see that adolescents, especially girls, well done, nice and beautiful should not listen to any complacency and not because of strange to see that many of the wolf are the prey. I say the wolf under his jacket as they are not all equal ilk: There are no little skill, silent, without hatred or bitterness, that secret, patients with the sweetness will follow the ladies to the house and streets ; more, we know that among all the wolves zalmeros ay! are the most fierce.


Pilot In Canada Salary

" Little Red Riding Hood Red "by Charles Perrault


Talking about Little Red Riding Hood, her red hood and her clear innocence and lack of sight, is to make children's literature, remembering childhood or perhaps consider in your children. Popularly so, but not many know the origin of this story.

Little Red Riding Hood was first written by Charles Perrault, in 1697, more that history does not belong. It was a popular story that went from mouth to mouth. Parrault is responsible for collecting for written transmission. Later would be written by the Brothers Grimm, they made this a story something more innocent, that version would give him worldwide popularity and even today is the most read. Then for 1800 Ludwig Tieck wrote "Life and Death of the Little Red Riding Hood, a tragedy," where would annex new details, such as the woodsman who rescues Red Riding Hood and Grandma. The difference the popular fairy tale and the story of Charles Parrault is that the history of this - for the time - more than a cruel story like a legend. In fact these stories now for children as Little Red Riding Hood or Cinderella (also written by Perrault and later by the brothers Grimm), are considered the first possible tales of terror.

However, no matter how cruel it was the story of Parrault, it omitted some details of the popular buzz more terrifying as the fox invited the girl to eat the flesh and drinking the blood of freshly dismembered his grandmother. On the contrary the intention of Parraut with this story was to leave a moral lesson on girls that relate to strangers.

Without further ado, Parrault Red Riding Hood, enjoy:


Red Riding Hood There once was a girl in a village, the most beautiful was ever seen, his mother was mad with her and her grandmother still more. This good woman had to make a Little Red Riding Hood and I sat while everyone called her Little Red Riding Hood.

One day her mother, having cooked some cakes, said:
- Go see how your grandmother, for I hear she has been sick Take her a cake and this little pot of butter.

Red Riding Hood set out immediately to see his grandmother who lived in another village. Passing through a forest, he met the wolf, who longed to eat, but dared not because some woodcutters working nearby. He asked where I was going. The poor girl did not know it was dangerous to stop and talk to a wolf, he said,
- I will see my grandmother and carry her a cake and a pot of butter mother sends.
- Do you live far away? - Said the Wolf.
- Oh, yeah! - Red Riding Hood said - beyond the mill you see yonder, in the first house in the village.
- Well - said Wolf - I'll go and see her I'll go this way and go you that, and we'll see who gets there first.

The wolf ran full speed down the road that was shorter and the girl went the longest way, amusing take nuts, running after butterflies, and gathering bouquets of little flowers. Wolf was not long in coming to grandma's house, hit, knock, knock.
- Who is it?
- Your grandchild, Little Red Riding Hood - Wolf said, disguising his voice - has brought you a cake and a pot of butter mother sends.

The poor grandmother, who was in bed because she was However, he shouted:
- Throw the latch and the latch will go.

The Wolf pulled the bobbin, and the door opened. It fell upon the good woman and ate her in a heartbeat, he had more than three days without eating. Then shut the door and went to sleep in the bed of his grandmother, who waited for Little Red Riding Hood, a while after, he hit the door: tap, tap.
- Who is it?
Red Riding Hood, hearing the voice of the wolf, was at first afraid, but believing her grandmother had a cold, answered:
- Your grandchild, Little Red Riding Hood, I bring a cake and a pot of butter mother sends you.

Wolf shouted the voice softening a bit:
- Pull the latch and the latch will go.

Red Riding Hood pulled the bobbin and the door opened. Seeing her go, Wolf said, while hiding in the bed under the blanket:
- Put the cake and the little pot of butter upon the stool, and come lie with me. Little Red Riding Hood

undresses and climbs into bed and was very amazed to see how her grandmother looked in her nightgown. She said
- Grandma what big hands you have!
- better to hug you, my child.
- Grandma what big legs you have!
- is to run better, my child.
- Grandmother What big ears you have!
- the better to hear, my dear.
- Grandmother What big eyes you have!
- It is better to see my daughter.
- Grandma what big teeth you have!
- better to eat you!
Saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood and ate.

- End -

Moral: Here we see that adolescents, especially girls, well done, nice and beautiful should not listen to any complacency and not because of strange to see that many of the wolf are the prey. I say the wolf under his jacket as they are not all equal ilk: There are no little skill, silent, without hatred or bitterness, that secret, patients with the sweetness will follow the ladies to the house and streets ; more, we know that among all the wolves zalmeros ay! are the most fierce.


Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Cancel Flash In Nokia E71

" The Raven "by Edgar Allan Poe


find the following contains possible spoilers, if you do not know the poem, get up before reading. Thanks.

El Cuervo (The Raven) is a long poem, narrative type. It was first published on 29 January 1845 in New York Evening Journal Mirrow , and written by Edgar Allan Poe, whose name was filled in popularity because of this poem.

Some say that he was under the influence of opium when he wrote, and others who simply drunk. Some say that he did in a day, others who took ten years. The truth is that the raven was inspired by Charles Dickens speaker in the novel Barnaby Rudge , based his structure of rhyme and rhythm in the poem Lady Geraldine's Courtship of Elizabeth Barrett and any aspect of the poem came by accident.

narrates - in first person - as a young student is visited by a strange and peculiar being, as he struggles internally by the loss of his love, Lenore. The fact that a student's question is something that the poem does not mention but which is as evident as the logic that is based Poe (the narrator is reading a book, it suggests, is also present the bust of Pallas Athena - Goddess of wisdom), he talks about this in Philosophy of Composition, a controversial essay he wrote in 1846, also known as composition method, whose subject is the method of writing and explaining the process by which he wrote this poem. Poe said that no aspect of the poem was an accident and that everything is based on logic, The Crow enters the room to escape the storm, "the edge of a midnight dreary" in the bleak December. " Even the term "Nevermore (Nevermore) was used for the effects of long vowel sound, ie the 'o', something that Poe had already experienced in other works.

The theme was chosen because of all melancholy topics, death is the most universally understood and there is nothing more poetic than the death of a woman, narrated by the lips of a lover deprived of his treasure. While many suggest that Poe was inspired by the early death of his mother, Eliza Poe, or tuberculosis involving his wife, Virginia, which is very safe.

After publication, Poe became famous almost immediately, and therefore was given the nickname 'The Crow'. The poem was reprinted massively and also parodied in the same way. But that did not give a financial success. The poem won the praise of many writers, but in turn got bad reviews by others, such as Ralph Waldo Emerson who said he saw nothing in it, or William Butler Yeats, who called it "insincere and vulgar. .. his performance, a rhythm toys. " However, the same diciedo Elizabeth Barrett wrote: "Your 'Raven' has produced feeling, a terror attack here in England. Some of my friends have been driven by the fear that produces and others for their music. I hear people in distress for 'Never again'. " Later, the poem has worked as an inspiration for works by other authors as Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov or The Parrot Who Knew Papa of Ray Bradbury. Today The Crow is undoubtedly his most famous poetic composition.

then leave a translation of the poem. I had intended to leave the original (in English) and that is simply not the same, it loses much of the real Poe's words. But then if I'm writing a blog in English, would make little sense to stop work in English. I selected the translation itself is not the best there is, but it represents something to me, and that is translating and Constantino Romero's voice was that I met him:


El Cuervo

Once upon a time, the edge of a midnight dreary, while
weak and tired, sad reflections embedded
bent over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
nodded, nearly napping, suddenly
was heard a tapping,
as one gently rapping, rapping at
the door of my room.
"is - I mumbled - a visitor
'm playing at the door of my room.
That's it and nothing else."

Ah!
distinctly I remember that in the bleak December;
mass spectra moribund
reflected on the ground;
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
in vain to borrow From my books
give respite to my pain.
sorrow for the lost Lenore,
radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad, lazy, chilling
silk red curtains filled me with fantastic terrors

never felt before. And now here, standing
still the beating of my heart, I repeat
:
"It's a visitor at the door of my room waiting to get
.
Any visitor who wants my soul grew inside.
That's and nothing more. "

Now my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer
:
"Lord - I - or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
plus is that, sleepy
when you came to play quietly, so quietly
you came to call ,
to knock on the door of my room, I could hardly believe
sure I heard you. "
And then I opened wide the door
Darkness, and nothing else.

Deep into that darkness peering,
long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared
dreaming. But the silence
unfathomable silent stillness,
and
only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore?"
I delivered in a whisper, and echo it back
me in a whisper: "Leonora!"
just this, and nothing more.

Returning to my room, my whole soul, my soul
embracing within me, I soon
hear again play harder.
"Certainly - I said - certainly
something at my window lattice.
Therefore, let see what happens there,
and thus can penetrate the mystery.
Let my heart be still a moment,
and thus can penetrate the mystery. "
is the wind and nothing more!

Open here I flung the door,
and flutter, came

a stately raven of the saintly days of yore, with no sign of bowing
,
stay for a moment;
and air of lord or lady,
came to rest on the bust of blades on the lintel
my door.
Perched, still and nothing else.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy
a smile
the grave and serene
decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven - he said -.
no craven.
ghastly grim and ancient raven.
wandering from the nightly shore.
" Tell me what your name on the shore of the plutonic night! "
Quoth the Raven," Nevermore. "

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so clearly
;
though its answer little meaning.
little relevancy bore.
For we can not help agreeing that no human being
blessed before the vision of a
bird perched on his chamber door,
bird or beast upon the sculptured bust of Pallas
in
his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust.
The words uttered, as
pouring his soul in that one word.
Nothing further then he
did not lift a pen, then
Till I scarcely more than muttered
"Other friends have gone before;
morrow he will leave me,
as I left my hopes."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at break
silence so aptly spoken,
"no doubt - I thought - no doubt what he says
is all he knows, his solo repertoire, learned
from some unhappy master whom disasters
wicked persecuted, harassed without letting up until
their guard, had only one meaning,
until the dirges of his hope
took only
melancholy burden of "never, never again."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy
a smile I wheeled a cushioned

seat in front of bird and bust and door;
and then, upon the velvet sinking, I began to linking
Fancy unto fancy,
thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird
old
meant squawking "Nevermore."

In this brooding, sitting without a word,
To the fowl whose eyes, as "firebrands,
burned into my bosom.
This and more I sat divining, with his head

in the velvet lining pad
caressed by the light of the lamp,
in purple velvet lining
caressed by the light of the lamp that she
oppress alas, never!

Then methought the air grew denser
,
perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled
on the carpeted floor,
"Miserable - I -, your God has granted
thee by these angels Respite, respite and nepenthe
from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, is sweet nepenthe
and forget this lost Lenore! "
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet! - Exclaimed," thing of evil!
Prophet, if bird or devil
Tempter sent, or thrown by the storm
this desolate shelter and undaunted
on this desert land enchanted On this home
haunted by the horror!
Prophet, tell me, truly, I implore you,
is there, tell me is there balm in Gilead?
Tell me, tell me, I implore!
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet! - Exclaimed," thing of evil!
Prophet, if bird or devil
For this heaven that bends above our heads,
that God we both adore, Tell this soul
sorrow laden if, in the remote Eden
shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels
Leonora,
shall clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
Lenore! "
Quoth the Raven," Nevermore. "

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend
! shouted presumptuous.
back into the tempest, on the shore of the plutonic night,
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken
! Leave my loneliness unbroken
. Leave the lintel
my door.
thy beak from out my heart
and take thy form from off my door.
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never emprenió flight.
still is sitting, still is sitting in
the pallid bust of Pallas.
on the lintel of the door of my room.
And his eyes have
appearance of a demon that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him
tends pours down his shade. And my soul from out that
shadow that lies floating on the floor,
can not escape. Never again!



Sources:

. El Cuervo
. The Crow (original language)
. Philosophy of Composition
. es.wikipedia.org

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" The Raven "by Edgar Allan Poe


find the following contains possible spoilers, if you do not know the poem, get up before reading. Thanks.

El Cuervo (The Raven) is a long poem, narrative type. It was first published on 29 January 1845 in New York Evening Journal Mirrow , and written by Edgar Allan Poe, whose name was filled in popularity because of this poem.

Some say that he was under the influence of opium when he wrote, and others who simply drunk. Some say that he did in a day, others who took ten years. The truth is that the raven was inspired by Charles Dickens speaker in the novel Barnaby Rudge , based his structure of rhyme and rhythm in the poem Lady Geraldine's Courtship of Elizabeth Barrett and any aspect of the poem came by accident.

narrates - in first person - as a young student is visited by a strange and peculiar being, as he struggles internally by the loss of his love, Lenore. The fact that a student's question is something that the poem does not mention but which is as evident as the logic that is based Poe (the narrator is reading a book, it suggests, is also present the bust of Pallas Athena - Goddess of wisdom), he talks about this in Philosophy of Composition, a controversial essay he wrote in 1846, also known as composition method, whose subject is the method of writing and explaining the process by which he wrote this poem. Poe said that no aspect of the poem was an accident and that everything is based on logic, The Crow enters the room to escape the storm, "the edge of a midnight dreary" in the bleak December. " Even the term "Nevermore (Nevermore) was used for the effects of long vowel sound, ie the 'o', something that Poe had already experienced in other works.

The theme was chosen because of all melancholy topics, death is the most universally understood and there is nothing more poetic than the death of a woman, narrated by the lips of a lover deprived of his treasure. While many suggest that Poe was inspired by the early death of his mother, Eliza Poe, or tuberculosis involving his wife, Virginia, which is very safe.

After publication, Poe became famous almost immediately, and therefore was given the nickname 'The Crow'. The poem was reprinted massively and also parodied in the same way. But that did not give a financial success. The poem won the praise of many writers, but in turn got bad reviews by others, such as Ralph Waldo Emerson who said he saw nothing in it, or William Butler Yeats, who called it "insincere and vulgar. .. his performance, a rhythm toys. " However, the same diciedo Elizabeth Barrett wrote: "Your 'Raven' has produced feeling, a terror attack here in England. Some of my friends have been driven by the fear that produces and others for their music. I hear people in distress for 'Never again'. " Later, the poem has worked as an inspiration for works by other authors as Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov or The Parrot Who Knew Papa of Ray Bradbury. Today The Crow is undoubtedly his most famous poetic composition.

then leave a translation of the poem. I had intended to leave the original (in English) and that is simply not the same, it loses much of the real Poe's words. But then if I'm writing a blog in English, would make little sense to stop work in English. I selected the translation itself is not the best there is, but it represents something to me, and that is translating and Constantino Romero's voice was that I met him:


El Cuervo

Once upon a time, the edge of a midnight dreary, while
weak and tired, sad reflections embedded
bent over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
nodded, nearly napping, suddenly
was heard a tapping,
as one gently rapping, rapping at
the door of my room.
"is - I mumbled - a visitor
'm playing at the door of my room.
That's it and nothing else."

Ah!
distinctly I remember that in the bleak December;
mass spectra moribund
reflected on the ground;
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
in vain to borrow From my books
give respite to my pain.
sorrow for the lost Lenore,
radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad, lazy, chilling
silk red curtains filled me with fantastic terrors

never felt before. And now here, standing
still the beating of my heart, I repeat
:
"It's a visitor at the door of my room waiting to get
.
Any visitor who wants my soul grew inside.
That's and nothing more. "

Now my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer
:
"Lord - I - or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
plus is that, sleepy
when you came to play quietly, so quietly
you came to call ,
to knock on the door of my room, I could hardly believe
sure I heard you. "
And then I opened wide the door
Darkness, and nothing else.

Deep into that darkness peering,
long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared
dreaming. But the silence
unfathomable silent stillness,
and
only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore?"
I delivered in a whisper, and echo it back
me in a whisper: "Leonora!"
just this, and nothing more.

Returning to my room, my whole soul, my soul
embracing within me, I soon
hear again play harder.
"Certainly - I said - certainly
something at my window lattice.
Therefore, let see what happens there,
and thus can penetrate the mystery.
Let my heart be still a moment,
and thus can penetrate the mystery. "
is the wind and nothing more!

Open here I flung the door,
and flutter, came

a stately raven of the saintly days of yore, with no sign of bowing
,
stay for a moment;
and air of lord or lady,
came to rest on the bust of blades on the lintel
my door.
Perched, still and nothing else.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy
a smile
the grave and serene
decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven - he said -.
no craven.
ghastly grim and ancient raven.
wandering from the nightly shore.
" Tell me what your name on the shore of the plutonic night! "
Quoth the Raven," Nevermore. "

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so clearly
;
though its answer little meaning.
little relevancy bore.
For we can not help agreeing that no human being
blessed before the vision of a
bird perched on his chamber door,
bird or beast upon the sculptured bust of Pallas
in
his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust.
The words uttered, as
pouring his soul in that one word.
Nothing further then he
did not lift a pen, then
Till I scarcely more than muttered
"Other friends have gone before;
morrow he will leave me,
as I left my hopes."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at break
silence so aptly spoken,
"no doubt - I thought - no doubt what he says
is all he knows, his solo repertoire, learned
from some unhappy master whom disasters
wicked persecuted, harassed without letting up until
their guard, had only one meaning,
until the dirges of his hope
took only
melancholy burden of "never, never again."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy
a smile I wheeled a cushioned

seat in front of bird and bust and door;
and then, upon the velvet sinking, I began to linking
Fancy unto fancy,
thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird
old
meant squawking "Nevermore."

In this brooding, sitting without a word,
To the fowl whose eyes, as "firebrands,
burned into my bosom.
This and more I sat divining, with his head

in the velvet lining pad
caressed by the light of the lamp,
in purple velvet lining
caressed by the light of the lamp that she
oppress alas, never!

Then methought the air grew denser
,
perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled
on the carpeted floor,
"Miserable - I -, your God has granted
thee by these angels Respite, respite and nepenthe
from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, is sweet nepenthe
and forget this lost Lenore! "
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet! - Exclaimed," thing of evil!
Prophet, if bird or devil
Tempter sent, or thrown by the storm
this desolate shelter and undaunted
on this desert land enchanted On this home
haunted by the horror!
Prophet, tell me, truly, I implore you,
is there, tell me is there balm in Gilead?
Tell me, tell me, I implore!
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet! - Exclaimed," thing of evil!
Prophet, if bird or devil
For this heaven that bends above our heads,
that God we both adore, Tell this soul
sorrow laden if, in the remote Eden
shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels
Leonora,
shall clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
Lenore! "
Quoth the Raven," Nevermore. "

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend
! shouted presumptuous.
back into the tempest, on the shore of the plutonic night,
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken
! Leave my loneliness unbroken
. Leave the lintel
my door.
thy beak from out my heart
and take thy form from off my door.
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never emprenió flight.
still is sitting, still is sitting in
the pallid bust of Pallas.
on the lintel of the door of my room.
And his eyes have
appearance of a demon that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him
tends pours down his shade. And my soul from out that
shadow that lies floating on the floor,
can not escape. Never again!



Sources:

. El Cuervo
. The Crow (original language)
. Philosophy of Composition
. es.wikipedia.org

Monday, November 8, 2010

Change Bmw Handbrake Cover



Satanic
depressions adorn this sector of my way, which is full of poets dead and dark of a strange religious liturgies led by the Greek god Eros. It is the omega of the damned, the promised land of the dead-alive. Of all the forms that exist to kill, my pain has been hung, but I can say, that the world looks different from here. If you point the finger and was laughing with the sleek, everything is seamless.

Everything is imperceptible perceptible due to sepia. Everything looks sepia least one day this boy was mounted on a wing, with pupils that shiver in brightness of interference. I'm curious to know who I am, who I was, I did and as everyone present was filled with emotion because it is time for implementation.

drama It's not about your voice sound like treason, every new beginning brings a new death. There are no words to express it clear that I feel - I told my executor -. A man thin and long hair, wearing a black robe that his face not be seen. If not need to breathe, but at least if I need to scream. Not if it is a feeling of death but that life is not.

Your love is the rope that adorns my neck, pressed me, choking me, but will not let me die. Hell is only nine circles and none of them no room for me. Words of love play on my mind when nothing left, when the sky is painted dark and the floor is gone for me.

I assume it was me who else failed, and that will not let my feet touch the ground again, so between dumb and tired pray for the tears that if able to play the old wet wood, please let me from only death can calm the beast. Up I expected a sky full of stars, perhaps to see me without you all feel sorry and give me a chance to be happy.



This text was written by my late June 2010 and released in November of that year.
Thanks for reading!

Change Bmw Handbrake Cover



Satanic
depressions adorn this sector of my way, which is full of poets dead and dark of a strange religious liturgies led by the Greek god Eros. It is the omega of the damned, the promised land of the dead-alive. Of all the forms that exist to kill, my pain has been hung, but I can say, that the world looks different from here. If you point the finger and was laughing with the sleek, everything is seamless.

Everything is imperceptible perceptible due to sepia. Everything looks sepia least one day this boy was mounted on a wing, with pupils that shiver in brightness of interference. I'm curious to know who I am, who I was, I did and as everyone present was filled with emotion because it is time for implementation.

drama It's not about your voice sound like treason, every new beginning brings a new death. There are no words to express it clear that I feel - I told my executor -. A man thin and long hair, wearing a black robe that his face not be seen. If not need to breathe, but at least if I need to scream. Not if it is a feeling of death but that life is not.

Your love is the rope that adorns my neck, pressed me, choking me, but will not let me die. Hell is only nine circles and none of them no room for me. Words of love play on my mind when nothing left, when the sky is painted dark and the floor is gone for me.

I assume it was me who else failed, and that will not let my feet touch the ground again, so between dumb and tired pray for the tears that if able to play the old wet wood, please let me from only death can calm the beast. Up I expected a sky full of stars, perhaps to see me without you all feel sorry and give me a chance to be happy.



This text was written by my late June 2010 and released in November of that year.
Thanks for reading!